***   No One Left To Burn  ***

Chapter 1

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She nibbled on her full, slightly pouty lips that seemed to beg crush me.  Taking my hands in hers, she softly squeezed my fingers and slowly blinked her half-closed heavy lidded bedroom eyes.  After looking me square in the face for just a moment she matter-of-factly told me that if everything went all right that night, she was going to take me to bed and fuck my brains out.  It was not a new expression, I know, but the shock of it coming from such a sweet young thing proved exceedingly provocative and left me speechless with my mouth hanging open.

                She was Meagan Burton, the luscious free-spirited daughter of John Burton, my most recently acquired client.  Anxious, hand wringing Papa Burton had hired me to locate his other equally luscious daughter, Lila, who had disappeared earlier in the week.  He was convinced that Lila might be in some kind of trouble. I had been in one of my skeptic moods, and I wasn’t so sure.  But then I wasn’t her daddy.

                And me?  My name is Rick Stevens.  For five years I’ve been a private detective and self-proclaimed master sleuth.  I’m primarily a freelance insurance claims investigator but occasionally the finder of the lost.  And sometimes, if business is really slow, I’ll gladly accept a commission to expose a wandering spouse and unmask the licentious paramour.  But enough.

                Meagan continued to hold my hand lightly in hers, and I thought I saw the edges of her mouth wrinkle with just the hint of a modest smile.  I shut my mouth, licked my lips and thought about what she had said.

                Now obviously I didn’t really believe what she had spoken was at all possible, except the part about taking me to bed.  She would have little trouble in that regard.  But I knew there was no way, no matter what she did, that she could evacuate my cranial gray matter by engaging me in a night-long stretch of intense, aggressive coitus.  Although I did experience several spaced out sensations of light-headedness during the evening, those moments were fleeting and few in number, and I could easily attribute them to the wine we drank.  Nonetheless, I truly appreciate anyone who would strive as she did to live up to such a personal and demanding commitment with such lustful puissance.

                And I guess I’d have to say that things went all right with her that night because she sure as hell tried her level best to be loyal to her vow.

                That was last night in Pont-Rouge , Louisiana .   Now I was alone in my dim car reminiscing and heading east toward New Orleans and home.

                The rain that so violently blew across my path forty miles east of Pont-Rouge had just about stopped as I cruised past the sign that signaled the New Orleans City limits.   A cluster of scudded clouds had hovered over my car for the last fifty or so soggy miles.  The churning, rolling mass had stayed directly over me as I drove, as though the car and the low hanging gloom were hooked together with a tether.  Occasionally the dense, dark, layered stratum would relieve itself and saturate the land beneath.

                The apricot colored sun was again losing its scheduled struggle to stay above the horizon.  The struggle that had, thank God, been lost day after day since time immemorial.  Jesus, imagine if you will, the sun always glowing.  No nights, no sunsets, no speckled, starry cover under which the young and the older, if they are so inclined, can park and spark and do whatever comes naturally.   But old Sol wasn’t yet ready to throw in the towel.  The sun’s streaking rays seemed to be grasping out toward the wet blacktop before me, searching for a handhold in its final attempt to remain above the peripheral rim. 

                Unlike the tiger paws of the Uniroyal tire that clawed into the road for traction, this crepuscular light had nothing to hold on to, so the gleaming streamers bounced back up from the glossy pavement to completely enshroud everything on the road with an immense blanket of saffron yellow.

                The drive back to New Orleans from Pont-Rouge had been dull and uneventful, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that the highway was narrow and winding, the ride would have been a real snoozer.   I tooled along past the international airport exit and it occurred to me how light the traffic was for a Friday night.

                The lateness of the day allowed me to miss the irritations and frustrations of rush hour.  That experience on I-10, whether heading east or west, usually has traffic locked up tighter than a dog trying to shit a peach pit.  It’s not that I’d had the foresight to plan my arrival at that opportune time. It was just the series of events that caused a delayed arrival.  The expression rush hour traffic is a real dichotomy.  There is certainly no rushing during rush hour traffic.  Instead, the streets are usually bumper-to-bumper with cars moving in slowly creeping lines.

                The beautiful city of New Orleans has only one main route of passage to get from the west side of town to the east side of town, and that is the Interstate.  Any perturbation, minor as it might be, caused by one of the jillion cars traveling the super highway, can wreak havoc on the flow of traffic.  Something as common as a car with a flat tire can bring all traffic lanes to a complete standstill for miles.  Then, and this really pisses you off if you’re in a hurry, for some reason all lanes going the opposite direction slow down to rubber-neck to see what the shit’s going on.  Luckily, I had none of that and I traveled my route unimpeded to the exit off I-10 at Claiborne Avenue .

                A blue-gray Cadillac of recent vintage caught my attention and I watched it with casual interest through the side view mirrors and through my rain splashed rear window.  The Cadillac had been behind me and within sight for several miles.  I had first seen the car sitting on the side of the road right after I’d pulled back onto the highway after making a pit stop at an Exxon station outside Luling.  I hadn’t really paid that much attention to the car.  Only enough to register its being there, even though it pulled out onto my lane just after I passed it and for several lengthy stretches, it had been just the two of us on the road.   It’s interesting how the subconscious mind can weed out, with only slight perception, issues that it doesn’t consider relevant.    But as I got closer to the central business district, the traffic began to build up and I noticed that the Cadillac was specifically maneuvered so that it managed to remain within a half dozen car lengths of me, even when I was weaving in and out to change lanes jockeying for position.

                I was continuing to view the car behind me with increasing interest when I pulled off the Interstate onto Claiborne Avenue and then onto Canal Boulevard .  My curiosity heightened even more when the headlights of the Cadillac remained in my rear view mirror as it also took the exit off the Interstate and followed the same route that I took onto Canal Boulevard .  I won’t say that I thought I was being followed, but it did occur to me that the envelope of coincidence was certainly being crowded.  I pressed down on the accelerator and my car sped forward.   As my speed suddenly increased, the car behind me faded slightly and then it too speeded up, closed the gap between us and then stayed with me.  I eased up on the gas pedal and let my car slow down a bit.  The car behind me also dropped back, but not nearly far enough back to suit me.

                Up ahead I saw my turn off Canal Boulevard onto Robert E. Lee Boulevard coming.  I had time to plan my next move, and I knew I was going to resolve the issue.   I waited until the very last possible instant to make my turn.  Without touching the brake pedal, which would have sent a bright red signal to the car behind, I spun the steering wheel hard to the right and held on with both hands.  Luckily, there were no oncoming cars on Robert E. Lee, and I made the corner with only a little fishtailing of my rented Town Car.  In the rearview mirror I saw the Cadillac shoot past the intersection without slowing, and I slightly relaxed the death grip I had on the steering wheel.  Then I heard the shrill squealing sound of locked wheels skidding on the wet pavement.  Shit, I thought. I scrunched my eyes shut and rubbed my hand over my face. 

                As I traveled down Robert E. Lee I increased my speed and closely monitored the rear view mirror with rapid, surprisingly nervous glances to see if the Cadillac backed up to make the turn.  While I was watching the road behind me, my mind was aswarm with thought.  Why would anyone want to tail me?  If someone did want to, how would they know this rented car?  Perhaps I had been followed all the way to Pont-Rouge and back.  But why?  What could the reason possibly be?

                I was deep in speculation, trying to reckon with some degree of intellect what this strange episode might hold that was quickly developing and could very soon befall me.  I quickly thought about some of the cases I had worked in the past.  Perhaps it’s an angry perp?  Well, not likely, if they’re still in the can, and as far as I knew they were.  An angry client?  Well, not likely.  They were all what I would call more than well satisfied with my results.  Perhaps an angry husband?   Well, I won’t rush to say not likely.  The insurance claim investigations I do are generally done during the day.  And so I have, on occasion, been required to call upon the lady of a house whilst her breadwinner is away.  Now, as closely as I rallied my thoughts, there had been only a time or two when my search for the truth resulted in, well, you know what they say, don’t you?  Discretion is the better part of valor.  Yes, now you remember.  Well, yours truly has an abundance of both.  So I feel confident in saying not likely.

                I had driven about two blocks on Robert E. Lee before the Cadillac reappeared. But now it seemed to be on a very serious mission.  At least it looked that way to me, because it was moving way too fast for the residential area we were in.  It was in short order, almost kissing my rear bumper.

                We traveled like that for another block with him drafting behind me.  NASCAR driver and super star Richard Petty he ain’t, I thought.  I tried to remain cool-headed while I rapidly glanced from the road in front and into the mirror at the car behind and then back again.  But my alter ego, my evil twin like the one that lurks within each of us, would have no part of it.  The other me, the one who doesn’t always remain calm and cool- headed, had become extremely miffed by the closeness of the car and the feeling that the other driver’s beady eyes were burning into the back of my skull.

                I tapped the brake pedal in hopes that the Cadillac would back off.  The flashing brake lights must have startled the shit out of the driver, because he set the binders and locked his wheels.  The car skidded almost a full circle before he regained control of it, straightened it out, and was once again in hot pursuit.

                 The headlights on the car suddenly disappeared completely from my rearview mirror but moved as a blur in my side view mirror.   It had swung into the left lane and I thought it was going to pass.  As it came up along side me, it seemed to slow down a bit.  It was too damn close to me.    I could have reached out with my hand and touched its shiny blue paint.

                With my first fleeting glance at the car beside me, I saw only an ugly but gleeful grin on the face of the man in the passenger seat who was peering back at me.  I quickly turned my attention back to the road in front of me.  I hit the brake a touch to slow down and eased my car farther over to the right side of the street.  I wanted to give the lunatic more room and myself a little clearance as well.  My peripheral vision detected significant movement in the other car.  I took a second look at what was going on in the car that I thought was passing, but which obviously wasn’t, and couldn’t believe my goddamn eyes.   The hair on my neck stood up stiff and my skin suddenly felt prickly as if I had just touched a bare, hot, electrical wire.  I wouldn’t have been any more shocked if someone had shoved an electric cattle prod up my ass.

                The window on the passenger side of the Cadillac was down, and not more than half a foot away from my left ear lobe was the business end of a 12-gauge shotgun.  The muzzle of the gun that held my attention was, without a doubt, the biggest hole I’d looked into from six inches out in a long time.  From where I was sitting, my point of view made the hole look almost big enough to crawl into.

                What happened next was purely reflex action.  My right foot slammed down on the brake pedal with almost enough force to jam it through the floorboard and out onto the pavement below.  My left foot twisted, and a streak of pain shot up to my scalp like a bolt of lightning.   I tried desperately to free my left foot, which was bent at an odd angle, and caught under the brake pedal.

                With total abandonment of my imprisoned pedicle, I dove to my right.  As I lunged, I did it fast.  And I did it without thinking.   My dive was fast enough that I couldn’t stop myself, and my head crashed into the not-too-well padded dashboard.  My forehead hit at an oblique angle and ricocheted off with a rebound that nearly ripped my noggin from my body.

                The shotgun report that rang out in my tightly closed car was ear splitting.  The charge delivered by the 12-gauge, blasted through the left window, passed through the space where my head had been only an instant before, and smashed out the right side window.  The blast left the rancid odorous smell of spent gunpowder and the offensive stench of smoldering upholstery trailing in its flaming wake.  Glass whistled around the inside of my car like mosquitoes buzzing over a stagnant Louisiana swamp in the suffocating, humid heat of summer.

                My car swerved to the right completely out of control.  No one was at the wheel.  It hit the curb with sufficient force to fly back to the center of the street like it was attached to a length of bungee cord. It skittered across the centerline and smashed into the side of the Cadillac, sending out loud, unnerving sounds of ripping metal and shattering glass.

                Again my car hurtled toward the curb, only this time with even greater velocity.   This time it didn’t bounce back.   Instead, the lumbering Town Car leaped the curb and crashed through a beautiful wrought iron fence.  The car completed a rhythmic pirouette during its passage through the air and just missed a wide-open gate by only a few feet.   It turned sideways as it skewed across the front lawn of a very large white frame house, skidded through a sea of lush St. Augustine grass that became uprooted, then came to rest in the middle of a lavish rose bed.  The horticultural display, that must have taken many years and as many thorn pricks to cultivate, was instantly destroyed.

                I listened to the squeal of tires when the Cadillac sped off, then I lay still with my eyes closed for what I thought was just a few moments.  My conception of the time that passed was flawed.  I had blacked out and what I had thought was just a few moments was really several minutes.

                The black, murky cloak of unconsciousness began to slowly lift, and I found myself draped limply across the front seat of my car.  I rolled my head over the edge and spit out the blood that filled my mouth. I lay there motionless, staring at a wet, red spot on the floor mat, and pondered the question, “Well, Jesus Christ, Rick, what do you think?  What the fuck is going on?”   Not once in the flickering of time that I lay there did the thought pass through my mind that if someone really had their mind set on dusting me, they could have easily shoved that shotgun into the car again and done it right.  My mouth filled with blood again, and I got sick.  Yes, I did.  I got nasty sick.  I puked, and then I puked some more.   I puked until every muscle in my body was trembling.  Each convulsion caused a burning pain in my ribs where my chest had slammed into the steering wheel.  The piercing sting brought tears to my eyes.  Finally, when there was nothing left to expel, I very gently blotted my swollen lips with my coat sleeve and mentally wrote off my new Austin Reed jacket.

                I groped slowly for the door handle and pulled myself up and out of the car. My legs were as wobbly as a newborn colt’s, and I felt myself going down.  I had to grab hold of the side of my car to remain standing.  It would have been very easy to go on down and stay there.  That’s how I felt and that’s what I thought I really wanted to do, but something inside of me made my grip on the car tighten and I remained upright.   After I had several gulps of fresh, moist air, I began to feel a little better.  I hadn’t realized how tense I’d been during the fracas, but it began to come to me while I was standing next to my car looking down at my feet and occasionally spitting on my shoes.  Slowly, like a fresh breeze, relief began to come over me.   I felt the burdensome weight of fear lessen.  I rolled my head from side to side and flexed my shoulders.  And then, for the first time since I’d turned off Canal Boulevard, I started to relax.  Soon I could think about what had just happened to me without my hands beginning to shake and my stomach trying to rebel.   I was knee deep in the mounded bed of badly battered roses, doing my version of Lamaze, when I turned away from my car and began to survey the results of my recent encounter. 

                For a few moments I thought about what had happened out there in the street, on the usually serene Robert E. Lee Boulevard.  I knew there had been other times when I had come close to buying the farm, but not as close as tonight.   I also knew that if I’d been slower to duck or if that shooter’s reflexes had been quicker or his trigger finger a little more nimble, I would be growing cold on the stained front seat of the car that was holding me up.           

                Then, if things weren’t already bad enough, I’ll be a son of a bitch if it didn’t start to rain again.  Oh well, I thought, what the shit.  Nobody promised me a rose garden.

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